Featherbound

Chapter 1: Survivor

I look up at the reddened sky, eyes scanning for the silhouette of wings against the dying light of the day. There are more humans around me, scurrying around, tripping over cracked asphalt and long-dead bodies, trying to get to safety before night finally claims the day.
That's when they come out.
The angels.
My mother used to tell me stories of angels. How they guarded over humans, protecting them from the demons that walked the earth.
She was very, very wrong. These angels wielded long swords, sharper than any blade I've ever seen, and their faces, though beautiful, hold malice and disdain. Worst of all, they hate humans. To think I ever thought them possible of being guardians of humankind is laughable as I look around at the ruins of the city around me. It used to be St. Louis. Now, it's just crumbling buildings, wrecked cars, and cracked pavement dyed red from the gallons of blood that has been spilt.
That first attack happened two weeks ago, and in these two weeks, I have learned how to survive. As the sun starts to set, I hurry to a place I know is safe.
Mel's Grocery Store is empty. Most of the stores in the area had been cleaned out by survivors in the first week. Being a former employee, though, I know the secrets of the store. I know about the hidden back room that we used in case of robberies. I had made that secret back room my home. As I step through one of the broken windows, glass crackles beneath my feet. The shelves are empty where the scalpers have taken everything that wasn't nailed down. Towards the back of the store, there's another empty set of shelves.
I look around to make sure I'm alone before digging my fingers into the crack and sliding the secret door open. Once it is closed behind me, I breathe my first breath of relief all day. The room contains a twin-sized mattress and boxes of canned food I had stolen from the grocery store on the first day. I pull off my backpack and throw it down next to the food. The tiles on the floor are yellowed with age and dirt, blood splattering here and there from the few times I had to retreat here to hide from scavengers. I touch the scar on my throat from when I had been left for dead that first day. I shake the memory from my head. I dont want to think about that.
I haven't seen an angel since that first attack, but there's talk that the angels attacked big cities all through the States. Really, it was the scalpers and scavengers that were more of a threat. They would be willing to kill someone for a can of beans. I've seen some kill for less. Not even kids are spared from death and violence in this cruel, new world.
Most of my personal items were destroyed in the fire that ruined half of the city. I managed to scavenge a few tops, some pants, and a pair of boots that easily hide my hunting knife. In the pocket of my black cargo pants, there is a revolver neatly tucked away. I took it off a man who had been nearly ripped in half by an angel. He only had five bullets on him for it, and I've been saving them for an emergency. I can't waste precious supplies now, not when Death is lurking around every corner.
I'm just about to sit down on the badly stained mattress to rest when I hear a scream. It's a strange sound, like half human and half feral beast. It immediately catches my attention. I hear a couple men whooping and hollering along with the feral scream.
"Git'im! Don't let'im go!"
"Don't damage the feathers! They'll feed us for the rest of our lives!"
"Cut them off of him and leave the angel to die!"
I pause at the last exclamation. They have an angel? How is that even possible?! My curiosity is getting the better of me. I pull my gun out and load my precious ammo inside. Slinging my backpack over my shoulders once again, I tiptoe out of my safe haven.
In the middle of the road stands four large men, all kicking a smaller man who lays curled up on the ground. Wings spread out bent and broken around him. One man is trying to cut a few feathers off, which makes the angel howl again. The angel is trying his hardest to fight back, but he seems weak.
Serves the bastard right, I think to myself.
But then again...
This doesn't seem like a fair fight. Plus, if I save the angel, he will be in my debt. Angel feathers are the highest form of currency in today's world. I could buy enough food and weapons to keep me alive and fairly satisfied for years.
My mind made up, I step through the broken window of the grocery store and out into the open.
"Hey!"
The four men and the angel all turn to look at me when I yell out.
"Move along, girlie, this angel is ours," one of the oafs say. Three of the men step toward me while the other pins the angel's hands behind his back and jerks him up to his knees. The angel has porcelain white skin, or at least I think he does under all the blue and black bruises. His black hair is ruffled and dampened by blood, and though one of his eyes is swollen shut, I can tell the other one is glacier blue. And angry.
I'm embarrassing him, I realize. That makes saving him almost worth it. Almost.
"Sorry, but I'm gonna have to disagree with you," I say, trying to sound tougher than I feel. The three men exchange looks before busting out into hysterical laughter.
"Listen, baby," one man says. His head is shaved, and a tattoo of a dragon slithers up his neck and across the side of his face. "If you're that desperate for money," he pulls out a feather he had cut off the angel and drags it across my cheek, "I have a way you could earn a feather or two." His eyes lower down to my chest, and I suddenly feel sick to my stomach. Without thinking, I take my gun and slam it against Dragon Tattoo's head. He stumbles to the side, but doesn't fall.
That sucks.
Before I know it, all three of them are lunging at me. As I dodge one man, I feel another one shove my back and I hit the ground. I know in most movies, the tiny heroine says, "I may be strong, but I'm tougher than I look."
That is not the case for me.
I am small, I've never been athletic. I can't fight off three huge men. I have to do something drastic.
I point my gun at Dragon Tattoo and pull the trigger. He crumbles to the ground, a blood puddle pooling around him. I stand and aim my gun at the guy holding the angel.
"I have plenty more where that came from," I growl, though aware that it is a complete lie. If these men call my bluff, it's over. "Take the feathers you already have and go." The men all look at each other, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. For a moment, I'm convinced the thugs can see it thumping through my black v-neck.
Surprisingly, the thug releases the angel, who falls forward onto his hands. He looks up at me with his one good eye, but I avoid his stare. I keep my gun pointed at the thugs until they completely disappear down the street.
"What are you supposed to be" the angel suddenly says between gasps, "Some sort of angel avenger?"
"You wish," I spit back without thinking, "I wish every single one of you barstards were dead." His good eye sparks with fire.
"You better remember who you're talking to, woman." He cocks his head to the side as the intensity of his gaze increases, "I don't think it would be wise of you to test me."
Fear mixes with anger inside my gut at the sound of his voice. It almost seems to echo inside my head.
"You better remember who you're talking to," I taunt him, taking a few steps closer, "I just saved your ass, and plus," I raise a brow, "You don't look very powerful right now." Something like humor dances quickly across his face, but it's gone in a second.
"So what now?" He spits a gob of blood towards me, which lands a few inches from my boots, "You plan to kill me yourself?"
That's a good question. What am I going to do with him? I've done my part to save him. I could just cut off all of his feathers and leave him out here. If he doesn't die from his injuries, I'm sure another gang will find him and send him back to Heaven for good.
I heave a sigh and tuck my gun back into my pocket. He stiffens as I take a few more steps toward him. I hold up my hands to show him I mean him no harm.
Yet.
I quickly assess him, trying to see where the worst of his injuries are.
"Can you walk?" I ask, trying to see his leg injury through the tears in his jeans.
Angels wear jeans?
"I think your leg is broken." I point out, kneeling next to the angel. His eyes drift to behind me and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips.
"And I think you've been stabbed," he says, still staring behind me.
What?!
I can't see my own back, so I reach my arm over my shoulder. I'm jolted with pain as my fingers brush against the wooden handle of a pocket knife. The blade is small but jammed all the way in. I'm lucky it missed my spine and organs. If it had been a half inch longer, I'd probably be dead.
All for a stupid angel.
"Turn around, I'll pull it out." I look at the angel as if he has grown a second head.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" I say, finally starting to feel the pain of the stab as my adrenaline vanishes, "Why would I give you the opportunity to kill me?" The angel's good eye is half closed like he's suddenly exhausted.
"Don't be a moron," he says in a bored tone, "If I was to kill you, I would end up dying here in the streets. As much as I hate to admit I need the help of a weak creature like you, I do." My mind is swirling with doubt, fear, anger, pain... I don't know what the hell to do. I grab the angel under his arms and start to drag him towards the grocery store's broken window.
"We need to get out of the open," I say, grunting against the weight of the angel, "You're really freaking heavy. How do you even fly?!"
"Are you calling me fat?" The angel sounds like he's half asleep. Maybe he's dying.
Somehow, I manage to get him through the broken window of the store with minimal cuts from the shattered glass. Once we're safe in my haven and I have him flipped half-assed on the mattress, I collapse on the floor, gasping for breath. I'm suddenly very light headed and exhausted. Am I losing too much blood? Maybe I'm going into shock? Just as I feel as if I'm about to pass out, a deep pain in my back causes me to draw in a sharp breath and exhale a string of cuss words.
Glancing up through my tearful eyes, I see the angel propped up on his elbow, a blood stained pocket knife in his hand.
"You're welcome," he says casually, tossing the knife aside and plopping back down on the bed. Before I can respond with a sarcastic remark, his even breaths tell me he's asleep.
I cuss to myself again, realizing I can't reach my own back. Hopefully, it's not bleeding too bad because there's no way I can bandage it myself.
Moving slowly through the pain, I dig through my bag for the little medical supplies I have.
Should I waste precious medical supplies on an angel?
The angel on my shoulder wins the argument, no pun intended.
With the pocket knife the angel had pulled from my back, I cut part of the angel's jeans to get to his leg. With two boards and some rope, I set the break as best as I can. I use antibiotic cream and bandages for the rest of his injuries.
I'm so tired. I want to fall asleep, but what if the angel wakes up before me and tries to kill me?
I look over at the sleeping angel, his broken, grayish wings hanging off the mattress and brushing against the floor. He must be a quick healer because already his once dark and prominent bruising across his face is fading to a mere yellowish tint. His lashes are dark, and they fan across his cheek bones like paint brushes. This angel is unnervingly beautiful. All angels are. How can something so beautiful be so cruel?
I can't help but to take a feather between my forefinger and thumb. I'm surprised by how soft it is. It breaks off in my hand.
Soft. And fragile.
These are the creatures eliminating mankind? It seems impossible.
Before I know it, exhaustion is claiming me, and I fall asleep on my stomach as blood leaks slowly from my back.
Let's see if I get stabbed in the back twice in one night.